Nothing Left of Yesterday
by Wah-Keetcha
Summary: "The baton had fallen soundlessly from a sharp spin in the air, the man's inability to catch it causing it to hit the polished floor." Clint mourns Coulson, but Fury refuses to let it consume him


Nothing Left of Yesterday

Rating: T

Summary: "The baton had fallen soundlessly from a sharp spin in the air, the man's inability to catch it causing it to hit the polished floor." Clint mourns Coulson, but Fury refuses to let it consume him

Author Note: Got back into writing as a way to deal with the stress of my upcoming Equine Health and Musculoskeletal exams. This is the by-product of stressing out, listening to _Blown Away_ by Carrie Underwood and basically waiting for my copy of The Avengers to arrive in a package coming from home. I love Clint, find him fascinating and figured him getting whumped on is never going to get old. Please enjoy and if you like it drop me a review!

* * *

He dances, his bare feet carrying him across the polished floor of the firing range. The lights are dimmed considerably; casting sections of the substantial room is shadows of varying darkness and depth. To him the vast room and its shadows don't exist; the only thing that matters at that moment is the grief and sadness driving his body into movement. The twirling and flipping motions of the tasseled baton barely register as the man moves, his actions honed and memorized to the point of perfection. The baton is sent flying into the air by an expert flick of his wrist then caught just as skillfully before being manipulated into another series of movement. Sharp eyes renowned for their ability to see the smallest of targets and their ability to take in all points of a situation flawlessly are focused on a single spot on the wall as he moves. To anyone outside looking in they would see Clinton Barton- the renowned SHIELD operative code named Hawkeye- working with his trademark insane focus. Those on the outside might comment to the use of the beaten and weathered Devil Stick he is tossing around and not recognize the significance of their meaning.

SHIELD Director Nick Fury understands why the man works with the sticks now; he understands that behind that insanely focused stare his agent is working through a tempest of emotions and turmoil. He only understands now because of the manila envelope he received upon returning from the funeral. Ever the pragmatic thinker Phil Coulson understood that in his line of work the inevitable might happen and as a handler he would be leaving behind a man who has more than his share of dark places and jealously guarded secrets. Secrets that Clint Barton only divulged to his handler throughout a long and sometimes strenuous working relationship, confidences that the well-organized Coulson cataloged and put aside for the next handler to take over as Barton's handler. The demise of Phil Coulson was a proverbial death blow to the agent who had grown close to the irritatingly professional man whom he had grown to trust and respect.

For Director Fury his death was the loss of a great agent, longtime friend and trusted ally.

For Clint Barton, the death of his handler was the shattering of his anchor.

Nick Fury stood amongst the fellow Agents who worked closely with the unshakable Coulson and watched in stoic silence as the ashes were spread into the whipping wind that passed over the grassy knoll. Natasha Romanoff stood beside the silent Clint with the other members of the newly formed Avengers surrounding them, her silent support offered but not taken. The famed Hawkeye stood close to his partner and new team but very much alone in his grief. Now, barely seven hours after the funeral the long distance assassin is still alone in his grief, working through the memories –both good and bad- in order to cope and move on in the only way he knows how.

"He's been at it now for almost three hours." She states matter-of-factly from the observation deck entry. Fury removes his sight from the dancing agent for a minute to address the redheaded Russian with a blank look before refocusing his attention. Wordlessly the woman approaches the windows and leans her forearms against the steel piping in a completely casual move for the usually reserved and professional Natasha Romanoff. Fury studies the other member of the renowned trio and isn't surprised to see her red rimmed eyes and sheer exhaustion plainly displayed. The Black Widow, contrary to the wide belief of those outside-as well as inside- SHIELD did have emotions and was capable of relationships. Much like Clint, Phil Coulson was a catalyst in her life for change and redemption. She too mourns the man who befriended and trusted her during a time in her life that reflected the inner chaos and indecision she was facing. Phil Coulson –along with Clint- had a direct hand in her becoming a trusted asset of SHIELD, a decision she doesn't regret.

"You know about this ritual?" Fury asks directly but softly, knowing the fiery red-head is still mourning the loss of a good friend and the possible mental destruction of another. Natasha doesn't respond for several minutes, her red rimmed gazed focused downward and on her partner as he moves about, the baton and balance sticks moving so quickly they are just a blur of motion. When she does respond it's in a slow and quiet tone, a direct opposite of her usually curt and to the point nature.

"Coulson told me once-after that mission in Slovenia, the one with the little girl?" at his nod the assassin clears her throat and continues "Clint stormed off the transport-he was angrier than I've ever seen him. Although he was injured and in need of medical attention Coulson let him go." She pauses, swallowing thickly before continuing "it was then he told me that my partner has a coping technique and that he has to get over it in his head before he can fully move on." She finishes, the personal admission quickly developing into a verbal report. Fury nods, knowing there was much more to that particular conversation that the Russian wasn't saying but decided to let it go-after all he has the personal accounts and memoirs of his Agent.

"I've seen those in his room numerous times. Usually they are hidden away in his closet but the few times he was working on something while I was with him-some obscure part of a mission brief or report he would pull them out and work with them. He said they help him clear his mind and retain information, something about the easy motion." She trails off, watching as the lithe man manipulates the tasseled baton with a master's easy skill.

"Devil Sticks… that's what he called them. Said that when he was a roustabout for the carnival he would walk through the small towns spinning and twirling, shouting and drawing people's interest and attention." She smiles and Fury chuckles despite the somber mood. If that was something the 'Amazing Hawkeye' was always capable of- is drawing the attention and interest of people. For a man who regarded most of his fellow man as tools of mistrust and foul intentions he always found a way to make them stop and stare, question and wonder. They stand in the darkened silence of the observation deck for several long minutes in the absence of titles and ranks. In this moment the two of them are simply mourners looking for their own understanding as to why one so great was taken, in this moment they are both watching the manifestation of grief and sadness displayed openly through movement below them.

"They had a love for each other I have never seen before—and fear I will never see again." Natasha's sorrow filled tone startles the director for a moment and he allows the words to sink in before turning a questioning look at the red headed woman.

"How do you mean?" he questions, knowing full well that relationships between agents happen- a fact he came to terms with a long time ago.

"Not in the sense of being lovers. It was something I first noticed about the two of them, they worked so easily together. There wasn't a time when Coulson ordered Clint to do something and he second guessed it or balked the order. Where I questioned the reasons and the execution of an order on multiple occasions Clint went to work without asking or fighting. On a mission where Clint went against protocol and came up with plans on the fly, Coulson trusted him to make the right decisions and offered any support he was able to give. The relationship those two men had-it was flawless and rock solid, it was something built from understanding and trust." She explains smoothly and stands once more before giving the director a worried look.

"I don't know what he will do now that Coulson is gone. He and I, for all our ability to work together don't have the relationship he and Phil had. That much is evident as he works through his grief and suffering alone instead of asking for help." She nearly sobs but catches herself and looks away, wiping furiously at the tears threatening to spill over. Fury watches the woman for a second longer than he believes proper and when she turns back he can see the toll of grief and sadness in her usually steely gaze.

"We will get him through it." He assures, placing his hands on the Black Widow's shoulders in a show of support that the woman greedily accepts. He is about to say more when an out of place noise interrupts the two, causing them to turn their attention back to the lone member of the broken trio. Clint was staring down at the baton which sits still on the polished floor, innocently stationary where it landed. His chest is heaving as he gasps for air, shoulder muscles spasm in exhaustion as the man simply stares down at the offending baton. The death grip on the two sticks in his hands paints the well-muscled fingers pale white as they tremble violently. Clint stands rigidly in the dim light of the firing range, his body trembling from the chill produced by the sweat accumulated on his body and the exhaustion welling up from deep inside his bones.

The baton had fallen soundlessly from a sharp spin in the air, the man's inability to catch it causing it to hit the polished floor.

Wordlessly the man drops to his knees, barely registering the fact that the abused muscles in his thighs and calves protest- not feeling the sharp _crack_ of his kneecaps on the floor. Unable to hold himself up the archer's upper body is flung fore ward, the instinct to catch himself with shaking arms keeping his face from slamming into the floor as well. He stays like that, perched over the baton like a table baring the weight of his grief as he stares.

For Natasha and Fury it is simply a baton on the floor, for Clint Barton it is the one time he wasn't able to stop the inevitable from happening. Through his insane dance the baton transformed from a tool of balance and skill into the relationship he and Coulson shared, his movements fueled by every memory, every word spoken and good deed done. The ups and downs of their early days together and the numerous bumps they encountered, working through them until they were able to work together in a sense of harmony.

Till the end when Coulson was taken away due to his inability to fight against Loki

Till the end when Coulson-ever the dutiful Agent made a final stand

Till the end when Coulson's life slipped out from his fingers, much like the baton did through the air

With a strangled sob the proud archer allows gravity to take him and raggedly the man curls onto his side, alone with his grief and the silence of the massive room broken only by the sounds of his distress and sadness.

Director Fury watches mutely as the younger Agent comes to the breakdown that had been brewing since the funeral. Natasha had left minutes before, unable to watch her partner make that descent to the very bottom of his grief. He stays and watches because he knows it is what Coulson would have done for his asset; he also knows it's what Phil would have done for his friend. As the Director of SHIELD he knows that alone and adrift without his anchor, without his friend to bring him back from his grief and self-induced hatred and refocus his attentions on Clint Barton would be useless to SHIELD and would eventually become a liability and potential threat. Squaring his shoulders the tall and imposing Director steps into the elevator and pushes the down button, taking the two second ride to what would be a turning point in both the lives of himself and Clint Barton.

The door gives a hollow ding as the light from the interior casts the shadows surrounding the archer back, exposing the man in all his grief curled on the floor of the empty room. He takes three strides and stops before the trembling mess of a once proud and cocky individual. Glancing down at his watch he fixates the archer with a stern look.

"Yesterday is over. There is nothing left for you there." He dictates. "You can sit here and wallow in your own self-pity or you get to your feet and get on that elevator. Either way the world will move without you, just like it is moving on without Coulson." His words his home and the sharp blue-grey eyes slide close for a moment.

"Get. On. The. God. Damn. Elevator." Fury orders sternly and the response is instant. Blue-grey eyes slide open, no longer lined with the grief of a man who lost everything. No, now they are filled with the ire and defiance Fury remembers from his early days. The eyes of a man who isn't going to back down simply because the odds are stacked against him. Wordlessly the archer pushes himself to his feet and grabs his baton before effortlessly squaring his shoulders and glaring at the Director.

"I don't like elevators." He retorts stonily and moves away, slamming the door open to the stairs and climbing up them barefoot.

Director Fury sees what drew his longtime friend and best Agent to recruit this man.

He returns to the elevator and hits the button for the floor his office is on. Casually the grizzled man reaches into the side pocket of his trademark coat and pulls out the folder containing Coulson's notes. A moment or two of undignified searching in the massive and numerous pockets he finally finds a pen and clicks the tip out, scratching on the last page in his distinctive scrawl

_My ordering and his balking gets results.- D. NF_

The elevator dings and the door slides open, he snaps the file closed and exits into his office.

Results indeed.

* * *

So, a friend of mine has a set of devil sticks and I got to fuck around with them and thus the idea for this story was born. I liked playing with it and am looking to purchase my own. Figured it was something Clint would do/have done at some point in his life. Also, I can't write Natasha. at all.

Woo!


End file.
